Yesterday I watched Nadia quietly eat blueberries and ached with the realization that she was one year old. I have come to believe that all the cliches and hackneyed sentiments and trite sayings are true – deeply, beautifully, embarrassingly true. I scribbled a poem with my right hand at 4am many months ago, while my left hand held Nadia’s limp neck against mine. I was thinking about a cross-stitch I remembered from my aunt’s house when I was a kid. It ended with a line that went something like “I’m rocking baby and babies don’t keep.”